Chapter Thirteen: Heaven by the Sea

The following days were a blur for Erik, one torturous day merging into the next until he couldn't recall what day of the week it was or how long he'd been living in this semi-delusional dehydrated haze. True to her word, Christine obeyed Erik's wishes and did not leave her room except to obtain food or use the restroom, giving him the privacy that he desired. Erik, however, made certain of the fact by taking the extra precaution of locking his door—a provision which he ultimately had to terminate after several urgent trips to the restroom made him realize what a hindrance it could be. Mercifully, Christine slept through the majority of the more shameful moments of his illness, including one instance of multiple sheet changes within the same day—though he was beginning to think she could sleep through a hurricane with that bird's incessant chirping. Normally, it wouldn't have bothered him, but with the pounding of his head and the added irritability of withdrawal combined with a lack of sleep, he was starting to wonder if the stupid thing would ever shut up. But after five days had passed, he finally began to feel like himself again, and when he opened his eyes on the morning of the sixth, he was able to breathe a much needed sigh of relief.

The brisk rapping of a brass handled cane against the door caught his attention.

"Erik? May I come in?"

The ballet mistress was somewhat startled when, to her great surprise, the man in question answered the door, looking a bit thinner than usual but otherwise no worse for the wear.

She smiled. "Well, you certainly seem to be feeling better."

"It's over," he breathed. "It's finally over."

Madame Giry frowned worriedly, tugging at the loose fabric of his shirt. "Oh, Erik, look at you! You've lost so much weight! Your clothes are hanging on you!"

Erik gave a frustrated sigh. "I'm fine, Antoinette."

He pretended to be annoyed with her, but in truth, he was grateful for her concern.

Madame Giry just smiled and shook her head at his unwillingness to accept her maternal affection. Just like a stubborn child.

"How is Christine?" he asked suddenly. "Is she awake yet?"

The ballet mistress' smile disappeared as quickly as it had come, replaced by a look so sorrowful that for a moment, he wondered whether she might cry. "Erik…there is something you need to know. The past few days have been difficult for all of us…including Christine."

Erik felt the icy hand of fear clench around his heart. "S-She isn't…." He couldn't articulate the words. "Please tell me she isn't…"

She laid a comforting hand on his arm. "No." She dropped her gaze. "Not yet."

"Not yet," he whispered. The words were spoken without emotion. He felt paralyzed, numb. "What do you mean, 'not yet'?"

"Erik…she is not well. She doesn't have many days left."

Erik clenched his fists, turning his back to the door. "I know that, Antoinette," he growled. "You needn't remind me."

"Yes, you do know it in your mind," she conceded. "But your heart has not accepted it. You may know it, but you don't believe it. There is a difference."

He leaned wearily against the bedpost. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you need to hear it." She was quiet for a moment. "She can barely walk now, Erik—even with assistance. And yours were not the only bed sheets that mysteriously went missing."

He whirled around. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Madame Giry shook her head. "You were in no condition to assist her."

"I could have tried," he insisted. "Why didn't she tell me?"

The ballet mistress crossed her arms. "Would you have asked her for help?"

He looked down ashamedly. "No. I suppose not." He sighed. "I've wasted almost an entire week—a week I should have spent with her!"

"It was not wasted," she corrected him. "You were fulfilling her request—keeping your promise. The time that is necessary to fulfill an act of love should never be considered anything but time well spent."

He knew there was wisdom in her words, but it did little to console him. "May I see her?"

Madame Giry nodded. "Of course. But, Erik—"

As he brushed past her the doorway, he felt her grab his arm. He looked down at her.

"Try not to get your hopes up."

xxxx

Erik had seen many horrors in his life. From the time he'd first caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as a child, death had always seemed to follow him, lurking in the shadows like a demon straight from hell. It was no surprise that those who crossed his path often met a swift demise when he looked like Death incarnate, the misshapen skin on the right side of his face hardly indistinguishable from the rotting flesh of a corpse. Yet not even Persia, where the streets ran red with the blood of the innocent and justice was dependent on whim rather than wisdom, could have prepared him for what lay behind the bedroom door.

Christine looked incredibly small against the mound of pillows that supported her, her delicate frame appearing even more fragile than before. The circles under her eyes had darkened while her luscious pink lips had faded to a sickly ashen gray. Her naturally pale skin seemed to have lost what little color it had, the sweet blush that typically graced her cheeks so conspicuously absent that she was hardly a shade darker than the sheets, making the dark ringlets that framed her cheeks stand out even more than usual. She was elegantly beautiful—but in the way that one might expect a sleeping Snow White to appear beneath her coffin made of glass, not the way a healthy eighteen year-old girl should look. If not for her shallow breathing, he might have mistaken her for dead.

He gently touched her hand. "Christine…"

Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of her name. She smiled tiredly. "You did it." She drew a shaky breathy. "I knew you could do it."

Erik felt his eyes fill up with tears. Christine was practically on her death bed, and here she was worrying about him. He could find no words to make an adequate reply, choosing instead to sit at the bed's edge and simply hold her hand as she had done for him several days before.

Was it really less than a week ago that we sang of love? How quickly things can change in such a small amount of time….

"When can we go to the sea, Erik? You promised me a day by the sea."

"Tomorrow," he replied hoarsely. "Tomorrow we'll go to the sea."

She frowned. "Must we wait until tomorrow? Tomorrow seems so far away…. Take me there today, won't you? Just for a little while…."

Her voice betrayed a tiredness that no earthly sleep could cure. The rational part of his mind told him that such an extended period out in the cold would only accelerate the rate of her decline, but the other part of him felt obligated to comply with her request. Once before he had promised her that they would go "tomorrow," but that tomorrow was now a fading memory, and his promise still rang empty. To make such a promise now would hardly be fair, for in her world, tomorrow might not exist.

He swallowed back the lump that had clogged his throat. "Alright." It was hard for him to appear excited about the outing, but for her sake, he forced a smile. "Today it is, then."

When she returned the smile, it was all he could do to keep from breaking down.

xxxx

Cool, salty air wafted in from over the harbor. Despite the lateness of the hour, the sun's rays had yet to burn away the patches of morning mist that lingered in the air like the spirits of lost sailors hovering around the ships, their mighty masts and statuesque smokestacks cloaked in shrouds of silver that melted into the grayness of the winter sky and sea. Somewhere in the distance, a ship's bell rang, the only manmade sound amid the symphony of the sea, the hushed lull of the waves against the rocks mingling with the lonely cry of the gulls.

The earth felt soft beneath his feet, his custom leather shoes sinking slightly in the sand. In spite of her condition, Christine had insisted on walking at least part of the way, though she stumbled several times, clinging to him for support to keep from falling. It was a valiant effort on her part, but she tired quickly, and Erik eventually had to resort to carrying her. The place where their two sets of footprints suddenly changed into one seemed a morbid harbinger of things yet to come. Already the sea was eroding her steps, dissolving all traces of her presence. Soon it would be as though she never existed at all, and only one set of tracks would remain. Erik tried not to think about it, but he couldn't resist a quick glance over his shoulders. He shuddered.

He felt Christine snuggle closer to his chest, shifting slightly in his arms. She undoubtedly was cold—she'd never had much meat on her bones to begin with, and the illness had taken a definite toll on her body. Of course, it didn't help that she was barefoot, her lily-white legs dangling temptingly over the crook of his arm, white stockings and red shoes forgotten somewhere on the rocks above where they'd stopped to rest. He supposed he should have forbidden it, knowing the dangers of the cold, but she had wanted to walk in the sea unhindered, and he didn't have the heart to deny her the request. He had looked away, then, out of respect, but she caught him off guard when she asked for his assistance—and he nearly refused. He felt certain he must have turned the color of a tomato, but, trembling, he had eventually complied. Later he'd blame the shaking on the cold. Though innocent in nature, it was such an incredibly intimate action that it made him terribly uncomfortable. As he'd slipped off each shoe, he laid them carefully aside, handling them as though they were made of glass rather than stiff fabric and leather. The stockings, of course, had been a bit more difficult to remove, as there was no way he could do it without appearing indecent. He'd looked to her, then, for permission before slowly reaching underneath the dress to where the woolen stockings ended just below her knee and gently pulling them off, his gloved fingers running over the smooth skin of her leg with all the tenderness that a man might treat his wife, though his heart was beating wildly with uncertainty. This was something most men, he knew—even most normal men—never did until their wedding night, and ashamedly he'd wondered what it might be like to experience the other things that married couples did. But he'd quickly pushed the thought aside, the dream of marriage, while almost laughable before, now seeming entirely impossible. The ring she had returned to him burned a hole inside his pocket. Though he'd never told her, it had remained on his person since the night of the fire. Once, it had given him strength, fantasies of a future together still lingering somewhere in the back of his mind. Now it mocked him for the memories that he would never make.

The sound of her voice, quiet and subdued, pulled him from his thoughts. "Let's stop here for a moment, shall we? I'm certain you must be getting tired of carrying me."

Erik would have carried her all the way back to Paris if she'd asked him to, but she seemed to have found the spot that she was looking for. Stepping into the shallows, he gently set her down on one of the rocks so that her feet might dangle in the water's edge. His patent leather shoes, of course, were ruined. But he had more important things to worry about right now than his wardrobe.

She release a sigh of relief as her feet slipped into the water, closing her eyes as the waves came rushing in, soaking the hem of her dress and swirling the sand between her toes. The water was ridiculously cold, but it hardly mattered. She wasn't in New York now. She was thousands of miles away on a beach in Perros with a little cottage in the distance and her father calling her in for supper. Erik wished, then, that he had brought his old violin. Perhaps then he could have been the Angel that she needed now one last time, the memory of her father brought to life once again. He supposed he could have sung, but he was loathe to break tranquil silence that had settled itself around her form. This was a piece of Christine's past in which he had had no part, a private memory that was better left locked away inside her heart. And to intrude upon such a personal moment seemed impolite at best and downright disrespectful at the worst.

So he waited patiently, watching her relive a life in which he had not existed, when the vicomte had been a bright-eyed boy of thirteen and the Angel of Music was still restricted to the confines of her father's stories. She was as still as a statue, the rippling of her skirts and the dancing of her curls on the gentle sea breeze the only sign of movement until she parted her lips in song, an ancient Scandinavian lullaby lilting softly over the wharf. She might have been a siren, then, a mermaid on the rocks singing sailors to their doom, but she needn't have bothered; she'd already sunk all the ships he'd ever sent out—even if it hadn't been her intention. Suddenly, she opened her eyes, gasping when she felt the cold wind against her bare skin where a scarf should have been. She looked up just in time to see that the wind had tossed it into the waves where it was now slipping slowly out to sea.

Erik wasn't sure why, but before he had time to think about it, he was out in the waves, wading out until he was up to his waist rescuing the red silk from the sea, a little piece of her that seemed ready to fly away to heaven before the rest of her was prepared to go. He returned in a matter of moments, soaking wet and colder than he'd been in years. But the look of gratitude that he saw in her eyes was worth it.

She took the scarf from his hands carefully, almost reverently, running her fingers over the fabric, suddenly back at the beach in Perros again. There was a strange smile playing on her lips.

"It's funny how history repeats itself…in another time, in another place, with another person…. I suppose I've come full circle now."

Erik didn't fully understand her words, but he had a pretty good guess as to who the 'other person' was. He grit his teeth. "The boy?"

It wasn't said with the malice that she'd been expecting. But she didn't miss the sadness in his voice.

"Yes."

Erik couldn't help but ask her, though he feared the answer. "Would you…would you rather it was him…right now?"

She thought for a moment. "No. I've already told Raoul my goodbyes. I'm glad I'm here with you."

She smiled reassuringly, patting the rock beside her, leaning into his chest when he sat down. A few weeks ago, he would have hesitated to put his arms around her, but now it seemed natural. How he wished that it could stay like this forever! How he wished he had more time!

Don't leave me, Christine!

A few feet to the left of the rocks where they were sitting, a small sandpiper scuttled down the beach, his twiggy little legs going faster than his body seemed to be able to catch up, running haphazardly back and forth to avoid being swept away by the waves. Christine smiled at the bird's antics, reminded of their little sparrow friend.

"Olivier's wing is almost healed now," she said. "You'll have to let him go soon. As much as he's come to like living with us, we still can't keep him forever." She kept her head on his chest, eyes never leaving the shoreline. She sighed. "But he'll be happier, you know. He'll be able to see his family again. He'll be free…."

Erik couldn't bring himself to respond. This wasn't just about the bird.

She sighed again. "You know, I've always fancied heaven looking like my old home by the sea. I know there are supposed to be mansions and streets of gold—and I'm sure they're lovely—but I think a nice little cottage on the coast would suit me just fine. What do you suppose heaven looks like, Erik?"

"I've never given it much thought," he answered honestly. "I was never really sure if it existed. Besides, I knew that I'd never get the chance to see it if it did."

"So…you don't believe?" Her heart sank. She'd had a feeling ever since he'd first avoided her attempt to invite him to mass, but to hear him admit it out loud was a burden she wasn't ready to bear.

He paused. "I don't know. In the past, my experiences with the church have been…less than favorable."

She looked at him questioningly, urging him to continue.

He sighed. "The priest that I was named after—Father Mansart—he was the only friend I had growing up—a sort of father-figure, I suppose. He taught me the words of God, and he taught me how to sing. He made me believe that, despite my deformity, I could be something great…." He drew a shaky breath. "But then…then one day…everything changed. I was a horribly insolent child at times. Starving for my mother's attention, I was willing to do almost anything just to get her to notice me. One day I took things a bit too far, and it led them to believe that I was in need of an exorcism."

He heard Christine give a little gasp, but she made no further response.

"I'd never felt so betrayed in all my life. Not until—" He stopped himself before he said too much.

Until you betrayed me.

He didn't have to say the words for Christine to understand. She picked at the wet scarf in her lap. "I'm sorry."

His arms instinctively tightened around her shoulders. "I know."

Christine hesitated. "Perhaps the priest was doing what he thought was best for you at the time. Sometimes…sometimes people who are well-meaning do not see the harm that they are causing and unintentionally drive the ones they love away. Sometimes people confuse human practices with the law of God, and what is meant to be an act of love is not perceived as such. I'm not saying that what he did was right, by any means," she hurriedly added, "but perhaps in his mind it was."

Erik grunted a response. As much as he hated the priest for what he had done, he would be a hypocrite if he did not acknowledge the truth within her statement, his own misguided love having caused Christine's career at the Opera to become a living nightmare. In his blind infatuation, killing a rival had seemed acceptable enough, though it would have deeply hurt Christine. Perhaps the priest, in his overzealous love for God, had made a similar mistake. If that was the case, then perhaps, in time, he could come to forgive the old priest. But while priests could make mistakes, he knew that God did not. And if he was not a mistake, then why had he been born with such a face? Christine had said that it was his face which had brought him to her, and he supposed that she was right, for what handsome man with such talent as he possessed would waste his life locked away underground wandering the sewers and playing practical jokes on the Opera's incompetent managers? If he had been born a handsome man, he might have been dubbed one of the century's greatest composers; he might have been rich; he might have had ladies falling at his feet…but would he have Christine? Looking back on all the torture, on all the heartache that he'd had to endure to bring him to his current state, he asked himself if Christine was truly worth it, if he would do it all again for her…and the answer was a resounding 'yes.' She was here, now, of her own free will, and she had told him that she loved him…. How could he curse God when He had given him the only thing that he had ever wanted, however short their time together might be?

"The trouble with believing in a God, Christine, is knowing that He allows the bad along with the good in life. And while it may or may not be true that all will work out for good in the end, I fear that I would hate Him for taking you away. But I do not wish to hate God, and so it is easier to say that He does not exist." He gently cupped her chin in his right hand, tilting her face up slightly. "And yet, how can I deny that He is real when I have seen Him every day within your eyes?"

His hand fell away from her face, coming to rest over the left hand that was draped across her lap. Taking her hand in his, he began to sing. [1]

Over the years I've learned to trust in myself

Thought I could make it on my own

But when I finally felt the need for a friend

I found I'd nowhere to go

I built a wall so that no one could see

The frightened person that really was me

Then I saw God shining through your eyes

Felt His presence all around you

And I found hope I'd never realized

Shining through your eyes of love

Indeed, her eyes were filled with love—so much love that they were near to overflowing. And as he looked into their depths, the masked reflection that he saw staring back at him somehow seemed far less repulsive than he'd once believed.

You were the only one to see all the hurt

I hid down deep in myself

You were the only one to sift through the noise

To hear my heart cry for help

And I could tell just by looking at you

That you had something that I needed too

Because I saw God shining in your eyes

Felt His presence all around you

And I found hope I'd never realized

Shining through your eyes of love

Shining through your eyes of love….

For a moment, neither spoke, the words of Erik's song still lingering in the air between them. Christine was the first to break the silence.

"I am flattered by your words." She put her hand over his heart. "But I hope that one day you will be able to see God in here as well."

He brushed away a tear that had fallen down her cheek.

"You mustn't cry for me, Christine," he chided. "My soul isn't worth your selfless tears."

Another sparkling drop dripped from her lashes. "My tears are hardly selfless, Erik. In fact, I am ashamed to say that my reason for worrying over your soul's eternal fate is a very selfish one, indeed."

"And what reason might that be?"

She looked up into his eyes, those radiant green eyes that seemed to burn her to the very core with more feeling than she had ever known. Surely a man capable of such feeling—of such love—was acquainted with the God of love Himself? Somewhere, deep within his heart, she believed that the decision had already been made, yet the clouds of doubt and uncertainty remained. She wished that she could lift them for him so that the Sun might come shining through. But she knew that that was one task he would have to accomplish on his own. She brushed her fingertips against his unmasked cheek.

"That I can't imagine heaven being as beautiful as God intended it to be if I must spend eternity without you."

Erik fingered the ring within his pocket, the answer to the question that had been plaguing his mind suddenly clear. She said she doesn't want to spend eternity without you… Would she say yes if…? He licked his lips nervously.

"Christine…may I ask you something?"

Her brows knit in confusion. "Of course."

"Christine, I—"

But then she shivered, and he realized for the first time just how frigid her fingers felt against his cheek. He frowned.

"You're terribly cold, Christine. Perhaps we should return…."

She nodded, wrapping her arms tightly around her chest to fight off the bitter wind. "It would be nice to get warm," she agreed. "What were you going to ask me?"

Erik stood, allowing the ring to slip back into the bottom of his pocket as he moved to pick her up. "Never mind. It was nothing of importance."

[1] The following song is an abbreviated version of "I Saw God Shining Through Your Eyes" from the movie Love Note.